They are cornfield soil, harrowed in long rows,
Kernels lined up against the eater's lips,
Ones and groups disappearing in gulps on their trips
Down the gullet where the future goes; no one knows
Where they'd grow if not harvested for food.
Shark teeth, they have always been replaced
With greasy ease by hinder rows spaced
In close ranks. Their generations issued
Forth from the eater's mouth at the end
Of their useful days. They litter the ocean floor
Like what's left from a jack-in-the pulpit bloom
Before summer even gets here. They make us room.
I watch those before march through that door,
The lips that swallow whole and never rend.